


A Meeting in East Hell

by GretchenSinister



Category: Rise of the Guardians (2012)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Western, M/M, Pre-Relationship, post-gunfight
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-10
Updated: 2020-03-10
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:53:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23087317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GretchenSinister/pseuds/GretchenSinister
Summary: Sanderson's journey to California is interrupted by the outlaw Pitch Black.
Relationships: Pitch Black/Sanderson Mansnoozie
Comments: 2
Kudos: 5
Collections: Blacksand Short Fics





	A Meeting in East Hell

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hilaryfaye](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hilaryfaye/gifts).



> Originally posted on Tumblr on 8/22/2013.

_Surely this isn’t really happening_ , Sanderson thought to himself as he crouched behind the bar, broken glass and spilled alcohol surrounding the shiny new brown shoes he had bought for his trip to California, now looking decidedly less shiny and new. _Surely I’ll wake up on the train any minute now._

He clutched his briefcase to his chest, listening intently for any sounds from the saloon. The fight—the _gunfight!_ —was over now, and he hoped against hope that everyone involved was long gone by now. He couldn’t hear anything, and after a minute or so, he decided it might be safe to stand up.

Unfortunately for his plan, at that moment the still, hot air of the saloon burst into sound as someone played the “Moonlight Sonata” on the out-of-tune upright. Whoever was playing did so loudly and far too fast. The music sounded just as deranged as Sanderson’s life had suddenly become.

In a few minutes the playing stopped, the ending punctuated by a long, deep laugh. “Sounds like something a dead man would dance to, don’t it?” Sanderson stopped breathing. “Come out from behind the bar, little man! I only shoot the people I aim to, and kid, you are way too new out here for me to have anything against you.”

Sanderson said nothing and stayed put. “KID!” The voice called, with more than a touch of anger in it now. “I know you’re there! And I know you ain’t shot. You think I’d’a lived this long if I couldn’t keep track of where the bodies and bullets were going?”

He felt like he was going to faint. He probably would have, if the next thing he heard hadn’t been two short blasts from a train whistle, alerting him that his planned method of escaping this bizarre, hellish little town was currently heading out. “My train!” he groaned in despair, standing up suddenly, as if he could still manage to run to catch it.

Pitch Black laughed to see the kid’s head pop up over—but not much far over—the bar, the dust and sweat of the day having made a disorderly spiked mess out of the carefully combed blond city ‘do he had seen earlier. “That’s what I like to see,” he drawled. “Now come out from there like a good boy. And bring a bottle of whiskey if you can find one that ain’t broken.”

“Wh-why should I be good?” Sanderson said, surprising himself with his ability to speak to the tall, slender man dressed all in dusty black. “You’re not!”

“What name d’you want carved on your tombstone, kid?” the man asked casually.

Sanderson paled under his sunburn. “I—I—”

“Jaysus, kid. My hands ain’t even near my guns. Can’t you tell I’m foolin’ with you? Learn to pay attention. Just want to know your fuckin’ name.”

“Sanderson,” he said quickly. “And I know who you are too! You’re Pitch Black! I’ve heard stories about you. There’s no one else you could be.”

“Pitch Black, eh?” He tilted his black hat back and shot Sanderson a crooked-toothed grin from his high-cheekboned, hook-nosed, sun-browned and wind-burned face. “Glad you’ve heard of me. Gladder still you didn’t call me Pitchiner.”

“Why would I call you the name of a man you killed?” Sanderson asked, confused, but relieved that he didn’t seem to be in too immediate danger of getting shot. He glanced down and found a bottle that was still whole, picked it up, and gingerly tiptoed through the wreckage that had spilled up and over the bar during the fight.

Pitch laughed, though Sanderson didn’t see how what he said had been funny. “God! At this rate I’ll be legend enough to go toe to toe with Coyote in no time.” He grabbed the bottle from Sanderson’s hands and took a long drink. He then offered the bottle back to Sanderson, to his surprise. “Well, come on, Sandy. You look like you need it.”

“Oh, no, I don’t—that is—I never touch spirits—hey!”

Pitch snorted derisively and pressed the bottle into Sandy’s hands and took his briefcase. “Then why the fuck were you in a saloon, little man? Now drink. Start getting familiar with those spirits.”

“I was in here for the shade.” Sandy glared at the outlaw. “The train was stopped and I was curious about the town.” He gulped at the whiskey spitefully. It was a poor choice. The liquor burned his throat and he sputtered and coughed for long enough that he couldn’t help but feel embarrassed, even in front of a man whose opinion should be less than nothing to him.

“Curious about East Hell?” Pitch shook his head as he opened the case. “You’re crazier than you look.” He shuffled through the papers inside.

Sandy frowned and looked around the mess of overturned tables and chairs. Could he run to the door now, while Pitch was distracted? Where would he go? The next train wouldn’t pass till tomorrow. _Not like I could really outrun him anyway_ , he thought, taking note of Pitch’s long legs. Maybe too much note. He took his second drink of whiskey. It seemed like the thing to do.

“Hello…” Pitch said, bringing some of the papers closer to his face to read the small print. “Lunanofs? Water rights for Santoff Claussen? What do they need all that for? They got a fuckin’ gold mine or something…?” He turned to Sandy and shoved the papers in his face, fairly looming over him. “What do you know about this?”

“It’s all in order,” Sandy said, peering blurrily up at Pitch. “I’m the clerk for them in Boston.”

“You know there’s a Lunanof who’s a sheriff out here,” Pitch said, shoving the papers back in the briefcase and clicking it closed.

“No…” Sandy said, unsure of what was going to happen.

“Well there is. And he’s the son of a bitch who’s been chasing me more’n anyone else. I did kill his parents, so I understand, but there’s a lot that boy doesn’t know. And when I find out he does know, then I’ll kill him too. But he don’t deserve it yet.”

“Uhm…” Sandy squeaked, suddenly unable to look at Pitch. Unfortunately, his eyes landed on a pair of legs sticking out from behind a table. He blanched again.

Pitch rolled his eyes at him. “It was only the one. And you can tell he deserved it ‘cause no one dragged his carcass away. Now, little man. What are _you_ going to do? You’re train’s gone and left you in the hands of a vicious criminal.”

Sandy frowned. “Maybe I’ll just keep drinking. I’m probably dead with you, I know I’ve got no job if the papers are late, which they will be, if you even give them back, and even if I live I’m not going back to Boston anytime soon.”

“I been to Massachusetts once,” Pitch said. “Didn’t like it. Been to California once too. Liked it better. Think you will too. We’ll find out anyway.”

“What?” Sandy said. He was beginning to wish he hadn’t started getting drunk for the first time in a shattered and blood-spattered saloon. Everything was beginning to make even less sense than before.

“You’re coming with me, little clerk.” Pitch wrapped a hand around Sandy’s upper arm and pulled him out into the blinding sunlight. “I’m gonna need someone with knowledge of the situation.”

Sandy stared at the inky black horse. Should something that alive be that big? “P—Pitch, I’ve never, uh, ridden—”

“I’m sure there’s a lot of things you ain’t never done,” Pitch said, smirking at him. “Don’t you fret though. Onyx listens to me like I was her loving papa.” He hoisted Sandy into the saddle, and Sandy felt what must have been a rush of whiskey-warmth flood through his body. It only got worse when Pitch swung himself up behind him. “All right now,” Pitch said. “On to California. My way.” He leaned down and spoke into Sandy’s ear. “And it’ll be a hell of a lot more interesting than the train.”

Sandy clutched the briefcase and the rapidly emptying bottle of whiskey to his chest. He had a feeling that by the time they got to California, he wouldn’t be able to say “I’ve never” about _anything_. He wasn’t sure if he was terrified…or elated.

**Author's Note:**

> Tags and Comments from Tumblr:
> 
> #I've taken over this tag today guys someone do something
> 
> bowlingforgerbils said: Oh my gosh, that was fantastic!
> 
> gretchensinister reblogged this from queerpyracy and added:  
> THANK YOU. Though I just reread it and I realized I left a word out ffffff (Along with all the other things I could have fixed but NO. I was impatient to get this to you before the party ended.) #never post the first draft
> 
> queerpyracy reblogged this from gretchensinister and added:  
> SHRIEKING LOUDLY AND ENTHUSIASTICALLY #CRIES I'M SO HAPPY


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